


Ain't No Rest For the Wicked

by oneswhonever



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Asexual Relationship, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Night Terrors, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, School Shootings, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 05:04:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11051892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneswhonever/pseuds/oneswhonever
Summary: Shortly after a tragedy in Ireland, a new boy comes to Brighton.





	Ain't No Rest For the Wicked

**Author's Note:**

> Be mindful that this first chapter especially has VERY graphic description as is NOT for the faint of heart.

"Mr. DiMarco," coined the teacher from the head of the room. All eyes went to the door, where the school's most notorious trouble maker was late for class once again. "That's a detention. Please take your seat."

 _Please don't,_ thought Jack bitterly, pressing his pen hard against the page - ink bleeding into his notes about the French Revolution (seriously, why can't the past just remain in the past? History was redundant). Andrew DiMarco was supposed to be his partner for the upcoming project, but the kid was dumber than a sack of rocks. He was also, easily, the most hated person in the school. 

Jack sunk down in his seat, ready for the daily torment to begin. He was surprised his chair wasn't already being pulled out from underneath him and splaying his ass flat on the ground. This had been routine throughout the whole of the semester, after all. Jack attracted shitheads like the plague. 

But, that's not what happened. All of a sudden, there was a loud pop - and Jack's ears began to ring. Sitting at the very front of the classroom, he was splattered immediately with blood - getting in his eyes and dripping down his ashen skin. He watched, eyes irritated and burning, as Mr. Coyne's lifeless (headless) body hit the floor with a hard thud. Jack's mouth opened and he stared, silent screams being trapped in his throat. 

Then, another bang. His ears were buzzing and hissing, and real screams filled the air. People around his desk were hitting the floor - either dead or hiding. Hide as they might, Andrew was making rounds of the classroom and shooting everyone within sight. The person on the opposite side of Jack, when the brunette man would not move, dragged him hard to the ground. Jack was speechless, though everyone around him screamed and pleaded. There was no use in begging - Jack knew. If Andrew was going to shoot, he was going to shoot. 

When the bullet hit Jack, it didn't hurt. It felt as though someone had chucked a rock at him and hit him in the abdomen, below his breastbone. For a moment, because of just how little pain he felt, he thought that something had hit him. Fragment, maybe. But the echo of the gunfire around him, bouncing off the classroom walls - there was no way he wasn't shot. 

And he fainted, but the bliss didn't last long. There was no pain. Rather, there was burning - from where he was initially hit, but also bursting outwards. He waited for the moment where he would see the light. He waited for the moment when he would feel his soul lift and leave his body. 

Jack hadn't prayed in years, but suddenly his mind was screaming and setting off alarms. The buzzing in his ears was rampant, but he couldn't hear any shooting. He wouldn't look. The more he looked, the more he would see the blood. See everyone dead around him. Instead, he laid there, hand instinctively pressing to his rib cage - to find that his shirt was soaked. He tried to raise his voice inside of his own head, as if being louder would somehow save him from his situation.

Jack had never grasped the reality of death. He knew it was an inevitable part of life, but he had questions. He had things he wanted to do with his life. When his grandma was dying, he remembered that accepting death was crucial, but that was hard. Jack was seventeen years old. Surely that was too young, right?

"I'm not ready," he murmured, to himself. He wasn't aware of whether or not he even said it out loud. He didn't know if anyone around him was even alive to hear it. He found himself wishing that he would have been shot in the face, instead - then he'd have a painless exit. This felt like torture, prolonging the inevitable. 

He finally opened his eyes, and wished he hadn't just as soon. His best friend, who had been the one to drag him down, laid in a lifeless heap next to him - shot right in the face (half of said face was hanging off of his skull). If Jack lived to survive, he would never forget.

His hand was extended in front of his face, so he experimentally wiggled his fingers - fearing that if he didn't die, he may very well be paralyzed. Movement was hard, a tingling sensation rippled through right to his core, but it wasn't impossible. And as he gained that inventory over his body, the burning sensation was the very first thing on his mind. He wouldn't get up. He wasn't sure of how long he would lay there, if maybe he'd bleed out before then, but he couldn't even feel his legs. They had movement, his toes were straining in his shoes and his feet were numb, but he felt like he would be sick. 

Fading in and out of consciousness, he let the darkness gain control - in the hope that he would wake up if he allowed himself to close his eyes. 


End file.
